


Stuck

by gaytectives



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Dildo Related Medical Problem, Gen, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2686757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytectives/pseuds/gaytectives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is <em>exactly</em> what you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [whybenedict, ](https://twitter.com/whybenedict2)[forsciencejohn](https://twitter.com/forsciencejohn), and [transsherlock](https://twitter.com/transsherlock) for discussing this first-meeting au on twitter. this fic is un-beta-ed so any and all mistakes are my own.

"Lestrade, I need your help."

"What, and you're admitting it? Is this a prank?"

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and clenches his jaw. "It's not in relation to the case."

"Oh." There's an obvious note of disappointment to his tone. "What, then? You alright?"

"I know that you as well as many of the officers at Scotland Yard believe that I am basically a machine that needs neither nourishment nor pleasure in life," Sherlock says, exhaling the entire sentence at once, "but this is untrue and what I'm about to tell you will - _ah_ \- likely prove it."

There's a long pause on the other end of the line. "Okay," Lestrade says, slowly. "What?"

"There is a vibrating dildo stuck up my arse."

"Oh my _god_ , Sherlock, why the hell did you call _me_?" Lestrade sputters.

“Who the hell else am I supposed to call?” Sherlock asks. The dildo moves and he makes a quiet whining noise.

“What about your brother? You know, the one who’s bound by blood to you and has to deal with all your weird problems?”

“Oh, as if he’d be sympathetic to this.”

“And you thought _I_ would be?!”

“Clearly, I was wrong!” Sherlock concedes. “Just tell me what to do about this!”

“Go to a doctor!” Lestrade nearly shouts, exasperated. He hangs up the line and Sherlock huffs, throwing his phone to the sofa. It misses and lands on the floor, and he groans when he realises he’ll need to bend over to get to it.

Right. Doctor it is.

 

⋄⋄⋄

 

He thinks, maybe, the nurse might rip his throat out. But he might rip hers out first.

“Sir, I need to know why you’re visiting the A&E so I can page the right doctor,” she insists, cheeks flushed and close to fuming.

“I still believe that my condition is none of your business and I will see any doctor available.” Sherlock stares her down, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“And I believe that, as a professional with more medical knowledge than you, I need to get answers before I can admit you to the emergency room.”

“I can assure you, it would be better of you to just admit me.”

“There are no outward signs of physical ailment and if you don’t write down what’s wrong, I will have to dismiss you,” the nurse says, yet again. “I have more urgent cases waiting to get in!”

“And you cannot dismiss me so long as I vouch for the fact that I absolutely need to be here,” Sherlock spits, “so just get me a doctor and _stop asking questions_.”

“Sir, I _will_ turn you away - ”

Sherlock bends over the desk suddenly and leans into her personal space, only barely stopping himself from letting out an embarrassing sound at the feeling of the dildo shifting. “There is a vibrating dildo stuck up my arse, and there has been for near an hour now,” he hisses. The nurse’s eyes widen. “Get me a doctor and stop asking inane questions.”

“I’ll… page any available doctor,” she says, reaching for the phone.

“ _Thank_ you,” Sherlock huffs. He straightens his jacket, turns away, and gingerly sits in a nearby chair.

 

⋄⋄⋄

 

Sherlock makes a mental note to never take Lestrade’s advice again.

He sits in the waiting room for another half hour, dildo still vibrating, before a new nurse comes to bring him to a bed. She takes his vitals and asks far too many “medically relevant” questions concerning the state of his vibrating arse, meanwhile doing nothing to even _attempt_ to stop the damn thing from vibrating. She disappears for another half hour, comes back to tell him the doctor will be with him soon, and then disappears again. When the doctor does finally show up, at least fifteen minutes later, Sherlock opens his mouth to complain about the way the hospital is run, then shuts it again immediately, because - and of course, _of course_ , this is just his bloody luck today - the doctor is… _cute_.

He’s cute, though the cane and lab coat make him seem a bit older than he likely is, and Sherlock can’t deduce a single thing about him because his entire body is vibrating and the sound is practically echoing around in his head. “Doctor,” "limp," and “cute,” are all he can get. Christ.

“I’m Doctor Watson,” he greets, smiling at Sherlock, whose colour has gone more than a bit pink. He picks up the chart off the end of the bed and leans on the cane in his right hand as he reads. “You must be Mr. Holmes.”

“Glad to know the nurses can get that much right,” Sherlock mumbles, though it’s without much venom. He’s just staring at the hospital bedsheets, waiting to be mortified when this unbearably attractive doctor realises he’s going to have to pull a dildo out of his patient’s arse.

“And you - oh.”

And there it is. Sherlock’s cheeks burn crimson and he glances up from his lap, expecting to see Doctor Watson looking horrified.

Instead, he’s laughing.

“I’m - I’m so sorry,” he wheezes, “this is - horribly unprofessional of me, they just - told us back in school that we’d all get one of these, and after twenty years, I finally got one.”

Sherlock stares at him with a mixed expression - somewhat horrified, somewhat amused, mostly confused.

“Oh, god,” Doctor Watson sighs, reaching up to wipe the corners of his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes, that was just - right terrible of me.”

“It’s… fine,” Sherlock says. It is, he thinks. It’s fine. At least he has a sense of humour.

He sniffs and smiles and shakes his head, pulling his stethoscope from around his neck. He walks around the side of the bed to press the chest piece to Sherlock’s chest.

“Deep breath for me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock corrects. “Call me Sherlock.”

“I’m John,” Doctor Watson says. “May as well go on a first name basis. Things will be a bit personal for awhile. Wait, what - what’s that sound?” John furrows his brow and shifts the stethoscope down.

Sherlock blushes bright red again. “It - it’s still on.”

John presses his lips together tightly. They tremble. "Right," he manages, just barely, without laughing. "Right, of course. I think we need to get you to x-ray."

 

⋄⋄⋄

 

"Alright, Sherlock, just stay good and still; the machine's going to start whirring - "

"I know how an x-ray works,” Sherlock snaps. He meets John’s eyes through the glass barrier and glares.

“Sassy for someone at the will of my machine,” John comments, raising a suggestive brow. The radiologist waiting to start the procedure glances between them both, looking somewhat confused.

Sherlock blushes, yet again. “Just get it over with.” There’s a moment’s pause before the machine starts whirring and John goes to taking notes, leaving Sherlock alone with annoying machinery and his scattered thoughts.

The entire time John had prepped him for the x-ray he’d been trying to get some kind of read on him, but every time he ended up grasping at straws. He’d formulate half a deduction and then the thought would be literally shaken into non-existence.

He tries to focus now, with the little time that he has. John has a cane - he’s brought it around everywhere but he only uses it half the time, so psychosomatic. He keeps rolling his left shoulder, though, as though it’s bothering him. Not psychosomatic.

The machine whirs exceptionally louder and Sherlock comes back to reality, remembering that there is, in fact, a dildo _still_ vibrating in his arse, and he shakes his head. Loses his train of thought.

“Dammit,” he mutters.

“You okay in there?”

“Fine, Doctor Watson,” he sighs. “Are we done yet?”

“Not quite,” the radiologist pipes up. “Just a minute or so longer.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Right - doctor, psychosomatic limp, bothersome shoulder injury. Very attractive, good sense of humour. Not relevant.

Haircut. His hair is cut short. He’s short, he has a limp, but he stands tall. Disciplined.

Ex-army doctor. Very attractive, humorous, post-traumatic stress afflicted ex-army doctor.

“Alright, Sherlock, we’ve finished up,” John says. Sherlock blinks and glances around. He hadn’t noticed the machine powering off. The radiologist leaves to get the scans and John re-enters the room. “All good?”

“There is a piece of vibrating plastic lodged in my rectum, I am not good, and I will not be good until it is removed.”

John smirks and helps Sherlock back into the wheelchair they brought him in on. He yelps when the dildo shifts and brushes against his prostate.

“Jesus, are you alright?” John asks immediately, crouching down and letting his cane fall off to the side.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies meekly, “the - it - I’m fine.” He ignores the warmth in his face and looks to where the cane fell. "Do you need that?"

John follows his gaze and works his jaw when he sees the cane. "Yeah," he mutters, reaching for it and wincing as he rises.

"It's psychosomatic."

"I know," John says. He quirks a brow. "Good eye."

"It's what I do," Sherlock replies. "Why do you carry the cane if you know it's psychosomatic?"

"Psychosomatic pain is still pain."

They stare each other down. The radiologist enters the room and, once again, awkwardly shifts her gaze between the two of them. "Um, Doctor Watson," she says, "I have the scans."

"Yes, wonderful." John turns to her, smiling, and takes the envelope. "Sherlock, let's get you back to a bed so I can look these over."

"I'd prefer to stay where I am," Sherlock says. "Less... shifting." John snorts quietly, then pulls himself together.

"Right. Well, you won't mind if I just look at the scans here, then?"

"Go ahead, doctor."

John nods at him and walks over to the backlight, clips up the films, and turns the light on.

Sherlock remembers at that moment that the x-rays are of a dildo up his arse, and he should have gone to a bed like John suggested.

John's voice quavers when he speaks. "Angela, could you please take Sherlock to his bed in the A&E?"

The radiologist furrows her brow. "But he said - "

"Just take me to the A&E," Sherlock practically groans. He runs a hand through his hair as Angela wheels him out of the room. He can hear John laughing as soon as the door shuts.

Quite frankly, this is probably the worst day of his life.

 

⋄⋄⋄

 

It gets worse.

" _Overnight_?" Sherlock splutters.

"We need to anesthetise you," John says, shrugging. "So we're keeping you overnight. Better safe than sorry."

"Says the man who's never had a vibrator up his arse for three and a half hours," Sherlock grumbles.

"That's your own fault," John points out. Sherlock glares at him.

"This is not my fault, I am a bloody genius, there must be some kind of... Faulty manufacturing."

"Oh, a genius?" John asks, grinning.

"Yes, a genius," Sherlock repeats. "Didn't come across anyone as unlucky as me in Afghanistan, hmm?"

That throws him for a loop. "How did you know that?"

"Psychosomatic limp, bothersome shoulder - likely due to an actual injury - haircut, demeanor, it's all obvious, it just took longer than usual because of this awful, jittery vibrating."

"But you knew Afghanistan, specifically."

"Wild shot in the dark. Bit of a punt, but I was right."

John's grin grows back. "That's... Pretty brilliant for someone who got a dildo stuck up his arse."

Sherlock ignores the second half of the comment. "Is it?"

"Yeah," John chuckles. "No one's ever looked at me and been able to see what I've been doing for the last decade or so."

"I'd have been able to get it earlier if this bloody thing had stopped vibrating," Sherlock huffs. "My entire lower half is shaking, can't you do something about this?"

"Is there any pain?" John asks.

"No, just vibrating."

"Nothing I can do," John tells him with a sad smile. "Try going to sleep, it's getting late."

"You know, I have more important things to do than sit around in a hospital all night," Sherlock tries. Maybe if he can just convince Doctor Watson that he's an urgent case -

"And I have more important things to do than help a bloke with - "

"Yes, I get the idea, you needn't say it again," Sherlock interrupts, putting up a hand to stop him. John smiles. Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Just... go do something more useful."

"Oh, I get permission, how kind," John jests. He pats Sherlock's shoulder and hobbles out of the room, pulling the curtain closed behind him. Sherlock tips his head back against his pillow and groans. It's going to be a long night.

 

⋄⋄⋄

 

It's an exceptionally long night.

After an hour the nurses move him to a private room - he's an "exceptional," but not urgent case, apparently - which puts him at near five hours of vibrating arse syndrome. He tries to text Lestrade and get more information on their current case but he's dismissed completely. It might be because it's three in the morning, but it's still aggravating.

And then his libido kicks back on.

He hadn't expected it to happen - the only reason he'd been masturbating in the first place was because he'd come to a bit of a standstill in the case. They'd been working it for a week already and he should have been able to solve it by day three. He got frustrated and decided he needed some... release.

Typically, stimulation was not needed during a case. He'd finished up before he came to the hospital, so there's absolutely no reason he should be aroused again.

But, of course, he is.

He ignores it at first, just trying to think about anything else, but then ignoring it gets painful. Very painful. And the nurse checked on him ten minutes ago, so if he can just reach the EKG machine and turn down the volume...

He has to shift an uncomfortable amount, and the dildo nudges his prostate more than once in the process (he has to cover his mouth to stop from making any embarrassingly loud noises), but he manages to turn the volume all the way down.

He flops back on the bed, breathing heavily. If he can just get it over with before anyone comes to check on him, he’ll be fine. He reaches under the bed sheets and strokes quickly, face growing warm, and he covers his mouth.

He imagines nameless, faceless people touching him, stroking him. He tries to shift to get the dildo to brush his prostate again and just get it over with, but now, of course, he can’t get the angle right. He strokes a bit harder, bucks into his own hand, bites his lip.

And, naturally, the door opens and Doctor Watson walks in.

“Sherlock, we’ll probably be able to get you in - oh - “ His jaw drops a bit at the sight of Sherlock writhing in bed. “I - sorry, I’ll - “

“Oh, god, get _out_ ,” Sherlock nearly moans, covering his eyes, hand stilling on his cock.

“Right - sorry, I’ll - be back later.”

“Give me five bloody minutes,” Sherlock hisses, “just - go.”

John nods and hurries out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock lets out a frustrated, aroused noise, hand moving again. To his horror, the nameless, faceless figures in his mind take on the name and face of Doctor Watson and he whines, biting the back of his hand. He strokes faster and tries not to imagine John’s hands on him instead of his own, then comes all over his hand and the bedsheets.

He slumps and relaxes, his other hand still covering his face. God, he can’t believe himself. He should have just ignored it, or gone to the loo, or something. He reaches over to the side table and grabs a few tissues to clean himself up. He feels sticky and weird nonetheless.

 

⋄⋄⋄

 

Doctor Watson comes back not five, not ten, but twenty minutes later. Sherlock can hardly look him in the eye.

“We can perform the extraction at around four-thirty,” John tells him, trying to meet his gaze. “It should take no more than an hour, not including prep.” Sherlock grunts in approval, staring at his lap. “You know, Sherlock, it’s not your fault, it happens to the best of us.”

“And I am _the_ best, so it shouldn’t have happened,” he spits. “Just go schedule the extraction.”

John smiles softly. “You’re a bit arrogant, you know that?”

“You would be, too, if you were me.” Sherlock finally looks up. “Thank you, Doctor Watson.”

“John,” he corrects.

Sherlock smiles a bit. “John.”

 

⋄⋄⋄

 

Sherlock wakes up back in his room some time later, drowsy and _not vibrating._ He sighs in relief when he holds up his hand and it isn’t shaking. He can feel his legs. His head is _clear_.

John walks in with a nurse a few minutes later, just as Sherlock was getting ready to fall back asleep.

“Congratulations,” he says, grinning at Sherlock. The nurse checks all his vitals and updates his chart. “The dildo has been extracted.”

“You are a medical god,” Sherlock says, slurring a bit.

“Not a genius?” John asks, faking a pout.

“I’m the genius,” Sherlock mutters. “Any complications?”

“None whatsoever,” John says. “Though, ah, the - the vibrating over an extended period of time did cause some excessive relaxation of a few sphincters - ”

“Oh, my god,” Sherlock interrupts, “did I shit the bed?”

“To put it professionally, yes,” John chuckles.

“Brilliant,” he groans, covering his face. There go his chances, then.

“Get some rest,” John says. “Barring any complications, we should be able to discharge you before the end of the day.” He pats Sherlock’s foot at the end of the bed and nods at the nurse to follow him as he exits the room. She scribbles a few more notes and hooks the chart at the end of Sherlock’s bed before leaving. He passes out from a mix of exhaustion and horror in no time.

 

⋄⋄⋄

 

At half past noon, Sherlock is showered, dressed, and ready to be discharged. A nurse had come and done final checks before he cleaned up and now he’s just waiting for the sign-off from John.

When he arrives, Sherlock stands from the chair he’d been waiting in and straightens his jacket.

“Oh, you clean up well, don’t you?” John comments, looking him up and down briskly. “Hospital gowns don’t suit you.”

“Do they suit anyone?” Sherlock asks, somewhat more focussed on whether or not John had just checked him out.

John ignores his comment and takes up the chart. “Vitals look good. You feel alright?”

“Far better than before,” Sherlock mutters. John giggles a bit, and the sound absolutely perplexes Sherlock.

“Well, it looks like you’re ready to go. Oh - ah, we have the dildo, if you - ”

“Just bin it,” Sherlock says, putting both his hands up. John grins and giggles again.

“Will do,” he says. He signs a completely illegible signature at the bottom of the chart. “Just bring this to the reception desk and you can go.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, reaching out for them.

John hands them over and smiles. “Sherlock,” he says, “I’d like to know - and this is entirely unprofessional of me, so feel free to sue if you’d like - would you like to go out, sometime?”

Sherlock’s cheeks flush bright pink. “I - excuse me?”

“A date,” John clarifies, his cheeks pinkened a bit as well. “If you’re up to it, I’d like to take you out, sometime.”

“After all of this?” Sherlock asks, completely bewildered.

“I think you’re interesting,” John says, shrugging. “A right genius. Quite a looker, too,” he adds, smirking.

Sherlock blinks a few times, shocked. “I - ah, yes, that would be - could I see your phone?”

John furrows his brow but continues smiling nevertheless. “Sure,” he says, reaching into his pocket and holding it out.

Sherlock takes it and texts himself, smirking when he feels his own phone vibrate. He shuts the phone and looks it over briefly. “I’ll be in touch,” he says. He picks his coat up from the chair and heads toward the door.

"I can cure you of that limp, you know," he says, turning around to look at John. “And maybe when we go out you can tell me about your alcoholic brother,” he adds, wondering if another deduction will put him off.

John merely looks bewildered before he says, “Maybe when we go out we can figure out a way for you to get off without getting a dildo stuck up your arse.”

Sherlock’s face burns bright pink and he nearly drops the discharge papers. “I’ll - right, um. Bye.”

John grins as he practically flees the room.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr user [mistermarx](mistermarx.tumblr.com) drew [a little fanart for this!](http://gaytectives.tumblr.com/post/114794944861/flowerholmes-deactivated239238well-that-was-as)


End file.
